Natalie, Nice To Meet Me

"Hi."

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

We were walking down an empty hallway. I had caught up with her with a determination to exchange pleasantries; I was interested in her manner as I observed in many of the English classes we shared. She was a tall, black girl, named Natalie, with a sophisticated style of clothing and hair. Gifted with a tongue of articulation and eloquence, she always had her hand raised with her insights about the stories we read in class.

“I was in four of your English classes last semester and three of them this semester.” I tried to remind her.

“Oh sorry; but, I really don’t remember you.”

This was starting to hurt. 

“You sat next to me all last semester in contemporary lit.”

Does any of that ring a bell? She looked at me with the most sincere puzzlement in her eyes. “I let you borrow a pen once.” She had forgotten to return it.

As much as this conversation hurt me, I was, nonetheless, very much intrigued by the way she carried herself. Unlike most students, myself included, she did not use a backpack; rather, she wore a shoulder bag made of real leather – not the shiny kind that glares obnoxiously when in the light, as if it were made cheap in some manufacturing factory, trying to pass off, desperately, like the real deal leather. No, her bag was authentically made with a fresh smile of originality – and it showed in her composure. She walked with confidence and self-awareness and had big, orb eyes to absorb all that came in her line of vision. If one of her professors were walking by, she would quickly target him and stride over to his side to strike a conversation about over-arching themes across multiple literary works of authors in the same era. Something like that. Her mind was always active with thoughts and reactions of whatever she read, whatever her eyes could see and see through.

I let our conversation slide and subside for a while.

__________________

Noon pellets of rain from the overcast sky tapped at the window I was sitting next to in the global literature class I shared with Natalie, a class in which Natalie was excelling well above others. She tested our professor countless of times and that made the class all the more interesting. The whole class would hold their breath and not say a word; there would be an intellectual battle scene between the professor and Natalie to which all eyes were drawn. At the end of the class it seemed everyone, except the professor and Natalie, would exhale at the same time, in relief. But that rainy day I did not pay much attention to the exchange of comments shot between the professor and Natalie; they had relegated to the status of a hushed mumble in my ears.

I looked out of the window. The darkening clouds made the raindrops harder to see unless they splashed in the puddles, distorting their own reflection. Soon, it got dark enough that my own reflection could be seen in the window. I saw a girl sitting at a desk, but who was she? She had on my clothes, but her face, like the raindrops, was distorted in the reflection. It was distorted and unclear. For the rest of the class period, I tried to figure out this mystery until my eyes grew tired. While filing out of the classroom with the rest of the herd of students, I rubbed my eyes and wiped my glasses on my shirt, holding the door with my foot, for a few students passing by me and out the door. When I finally put my glasses back on, it was to see, in clear view, Natalie, who was the last one out of the door, in front of me.

We walked out of the building and out into the rain. I put on my hood, which covered almost half of my face, while she opened a big, black umbrella. It seemed to be infinitely black. It was so black. There were no other colors, no patterns, no shades of colors. It was just a penetrating and certain black. Her umbrella held against the wind. My hood kept blowing off and I had to hold it in place with my hand. I thought perhaps she wouldn’t notice if I slid under her umbrella, behind her. Really, I was soaking wet and the pelting rain canceled out my wiping my glasses back in the classroom. The rain distorted my vision seen through the lenses. I made a quick jog to catch up to her, then, quietly and carefully, I followed her pace, close behind her. Past the blurriness and my hood, I saw that Natalie was carrying her cell phone. She was texting in the rain; a girl-on-the-go, eh? I wondered whom she was texting because she was texting fervently. Parents maybe? Boyfriend? Does she have one? And then—

Slam!

Natalie had stopped abruptly, responding to a text she received, when I smacked into her, my face hitting the back of her right shoulder. Just previously I was trying to look over her shoulder, fully delved in the mystery of trying to find out more about her through her text messages.

“Ouch, damn it.” I mumbled. Breathing slightly heavily through my nose, I patted my lower lip and tasted it to see if I was bleeding. My mouth had been opened, I realized, and when I banged into her, my jaw closed suddenly. She looked back at me. I was bleeding a bit.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know you were there. Are you—”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah … I … I know,” I looked at the blood on the tip of my fingers. “I have to go. Nice umbrella,” I muttered with my hand covering my lips as I was starting to walk away, taking a glance at her big, round eyes.

Did she suspect anything? She seemed too distracted with the blood. But when she talked to me, she had a confused look on her face. Surely she was speculating something. And was she going to say, “Are you all right?” or, “Are you following me?” I didn’t want her to finish her sentence; I felt too guilty and ashamed that she might have thought I was, in a sense spying on her. For the rest of the day, I made sure not to bump into her. I felt as if I were punished with a bloody lip, for making my way, clumsily, into her privacy.

_____________________

A few days after that rainy day, having ten minutes to get to my next class, I thought I would make a quick stop at the bathroom. The bathroom I went to is known for having quotes written on the walls of the stalls. These marked efforts of expression by other girls provided amusing reading material for the bored eye. As I entered one of the stalls, I saw that in the center of the stall door, there was a popular Shakespearean quote. It read, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by another other name would smell as sweet.” I continued it in my head:

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,

Retain that dear perfection

Which he owes without that title.

Romeo doff thy name, and for that name

Which is no part of thee, take all myself.

The quote brought me back to my early high school years, a time when I didn’t really know myself. If someone were to ask me who I was, I would have probably answered, a freshman at this high school. I felt awkward saying my name; it was long and I almost never said it out loud. So, instead of giving out my name, I would give an answer that categorically described me, which changes as I grow older. I could easily have been named Romeo or Montegue or Juliet or Capulet. The name was something I placed on homeworks, assignments and scantrons. But isn’t there something attached to the name? It seemed I never really got to know myself.

I was about to unbuckle my flimsy belt I had bought at a discount store by the Laundromat near my home, when I saw another quote in the corner of the door of the stall. This time, the quote was from Jason Mraz. It read, “Your name is your virtue.” I was deeply confused reading the Shakespeare quote and the Jason Mraz quote juxtaposed, somewhat, in the same stall.

“Huh?” I found myself perplexed; here, Shakespeare said that a name was just an empty title, but then Jason Mraz turned around and added meaning and morals to it. I was extremely baffled and disconcerted. Who was right? What defines a person, an individual?

I shook this mystery off and walked out of the bathroom, determined not to get a headache, when I saw Natalie standing by the large mirror in which you can see your entire body. She was applying makeup. Her arm movements toward her face were brusque, particular and careful. Everything about her was particular; she wore the perfect shade of eye-shadow that fit her complexion and only her complexion, unlike the shouting blue eye-shadow I see on girls who try too hard. Her lips glistened in the light, but did not come out as too wet and hair-sprayed-like and shiny. I looked at myself and saw my keratosis pilaris bumps on my legs and upper arms. I could have done something about those, but I was too lazy and I didn’t care much about them. I never really looked at them, at me, in the mirror. Most mornings, I would get up and get ready for school without even looking in the mirror. I wouldn’t even really fix my hair.

I left Natalie with her make-up to rush to class. Leaving the bathroom I walked out into the hall until I was at the top of a long, tall flight of stairs. From the top, all the movement at the bottom looked like the churning of waves. I imagined myself in a lonely lighthouse, observing the waters for boats. My light would scan the ocean and observe. The lighthouse never looks inward; its light just stretches far out. Taking me out of my imagination, Natalie walked passed me and descended down the steps. I watched her until she reached the bottom. Then something unexpected happened.

She looked up at me. Why? It wasn’t a split second thing. She stared at me for at least thirty seconds. I was freaked out and I didn’t know what to do. I tried to pretend to look elsewhere, but I couldn’t help it; her big, round, orb-like eyes were magnetic and they attracted my eyes. So I started to wave at her, instinctively; but, as soon as I lifted as much as a finger, she started to head for class. My heart was racing.

___________________

Busying myself with school work so as not to feel guilty of being distracted with my obsession with Natalie, I began to actually do well in school and be more focused and overall proud and happy with myself and my status in my classes among other students. I was self-assured, no longer passive and simply observant. 

Classes were spent with my asserting myself, participating in class discussions with my reactions and thoughts about the material we read. It seemed that my presence, for the first time, was my property, and I owned the signature I put on the attendance sheet. I even added a little zing to it, some personality: I made my signature a hybrid between print and script.

Although Natalie still participated, she was markedly quieter. I felt a little sorry and guilty for having, in a sense, took her role. But, at the same time, I felt too proud of myself to retreat to my old self, which, as I look back with reflective eyes, wasn’t much. This ambivalence I often set aside to make way for my newfound confident stride. For some time, I didn’t think of Natalie or her leather bag, which was now fading, turning a little dull in the light and looking heavy and worn out.

One day, Natalie and I had to hand in a paper for one of our classes. I yawned as I sat at my usual desk. I had been having near-sleepless nights, working on assignments until late in the night and into the wee hours. As usual, Natalie came in punctually. However, instead of taking her usual seat, center and front, she sat behind me, by the window.

“Pass up your papers.” Our professor waited at the front of the room with his hands on his hips.

I turned around to collect all the papers from the students in the back. Natalie handed them to me. Although I had distanced myself from Natalie, interest in her sparked again. I took that opportunity, of facing her to get the papers, as a chance to see any meaning in her face, as to why she should pick that particular seat. She gave me nothing; it was just as blank as the stare she sent from the bottom of the flight of stairs. What was she playing at?

Throughout the class, Natalie remained outstandingly silent. It felt like a hiatus to the usual status quo of how the class ran. Participating or not, she still drew the same number of eyes, except, since she was sitting behind me, eyes were drawn in my direction as well. As other students (I included) attempted to take her place, and as eyes were eventually pulled away from Natalie, she tapped me on the shoulder. My heart pounded slightly faster. I hesitantly pivoted a little and she handed me a note. It read, “Were you the girl at the top of the stairs?”

“No,” I wrote, lying.

“What?” She must have been confused and slightly stunned, not at the possibility that she may have been talking to the wrong person, but at the fact that I was lying.

“I mean yes,” I wrote after she handed me the note again, with her response of small shock. She didn’t deserve to be lied to; she was the truest thing out there, I thought; she was the most sincere person I’ve seen.

“Can we talk after class?”

“Sure … .” I was scared; I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Is she mad at me for when I kept following her? Perhaps she’s upset that I have stolen her thunder in the classroom. I was beginning to regret writing “Sure.” I should have asked, “Why?” but I was scared to know. You can imagine how scared I was when class ended.

___________________

We sat down on a near-by bench outside. Natalie had tears running down her face. I frowned. My poor specimen! I asked what the matter was. She told me what the matter was, or attempted to; her speech was incomprehensible because of her emotions and all her tears, which began to wet her blouse. Lifting my arm to pat her in comfort, I was surprised when she slapped my hand away. So she was mad at me!

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to follow you; I’ll stop. I was just, I don’t know … lost,” I began. She disregarded what I said and started to make a scene, sobbing loudly, as I looked around and saw people staring at us, stopping like the pedestrian form of rubber-neckers. One hiccup and she was ready to explain more clearly, well, somewhat.

“My … boyfriend … broke up with me,” she sobbed in intervals. I was surprised that this was what she wanted to tell me. I thought what she wanted to tell me would have to do with me.

“So sorry to hear that.” I tried to pat her on the back again, but like before, she resisted it.

“Didn’t you know?”

Now I was confused and taken aback. “No. Should I have known?”

“Aren’t you the girl he was seeing behind my back?”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“Well, you kept following me, I thought maybe … .”

I was relieved to figure out what was going on in Natalie’s head, not so much at the fact that I discovered the mystery of why she started to take an interest in me, but that the mystery was really something insignificant. My Natalie had intrigued me so much that I began to intrigue her!

“So then why did you keep following me?” she asked, justly.

“Like I said, I felt … lost … I’m not sure why. Half the time, I don’t know why I do things … until now.” In saying that, I found myself suddenly above her, knowing what really went on during those times of close-reading in on each other in the hallway, on that rainy day, and at the bottom of the stairs. Those moments seemed like hotspots during the Cold War. I had come out confident after all we had been through because she had confused me for someone else, while I delved myself in observation of her, the true her and found out so much more; deep feelings grabbed hold and organized me.

“Hey, why don’t we start over?” I gave my hand for her to shake, knowing I probably didn’t answer her question satisfactorily, but not caring. She took my hand and surprisingly smiled. Now, why did she do that? Another mystery I thought, but I didn’t care to dive into it at the moment.

Then, with full assurance, I said, “My name is … .”